Denver Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

I am headed to Denver to hit some open mics. What do I listen to?

As I drive down I-25 south from Loveland, I flip around the dial, and the radio sounds tired. It is the same old nonsense. The news on NPR is too depressing. I connect to my Spotify. I know what you are probably thinking, Spotify and its algorithm are the antichrist to music. I will not argue; you definitely have a point. My Spotify always recycles the same old music, kind of reminding me of a tired ass radio station. Nevertheless, I really like exploring music I am unfamiliar with and being able to pick music on demand. But, yeah, Spotify is not really doing the listener any favors. This is part of the perversion of the Arts and Entertainment industries under a capitalistic system. Where did the wheels really go off the track in the industry? Was it back when Black artists had album covers with white people? Was it when the whole payola thing got going and gave a few rich people a bunch of control? Was it when Barry Gordy had his label and screwed over artist after artist? Was it when producers gave starving artists sweetheart deals, forcing them to sell their souls to some rich producer and record company that really hadn’t done anything? I guess it comes down to the basic problem with capitalism in and of itself; there’s just never been a limit to the money. How much can you make? While the free market economy probably gave rise to many phenomenal musicians, groups, and genres, a lot of assholes leveraged the work and genius of the artists to enrich themselves. Thus, to blame Spotify, Youtube, or the Internet can be a bit misplaced. Today, these tech companies are merely capitalizing on the fallout of the Napster ruling. What really should happen is the Internet needs to just be turned off or minimized a bit. Then maybe we can all get back to the music hall and hear our neighbor play some tunes, instead of seeing the video taken on our iPhone.

What are my top two hits on my Spotify “On Repeat” channel?

“Headless Heros” by Eugene McDaniels is the first. I recently finished reading Questlove’s book Music Is History, which is great even though it peters out in the later chapters. I went through and listened to all the artists mentioned in the book—McDaniels really caught my interest. I had never heard of this guy, and he sure was a funky musician. I like to think I’ve always been immersed in funk tunes, so never hearing of this guy sure was peculiar. This track is off the album Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse (1971), which is an incredible album. Looking at the Interweb, I discover that this album pushed the envelope to the point where Vice President Spiro Agnew called the record company and tried to get the album buried. My guess is that this action was mostly due to this track. McDaniels sings about how we are all pawns in the “master game” known as capitalism. McDaniels, like many others, was irked that the super-rich had taken over, while the rest of us poor schlubs just play the pawns in their games. This situation really hasn’t changed, definitely since the 1960s. Much like Gil Scott-Heron, these artists, with their politically motivated songs, sought to strike a nerve and comment about what was going on. Scott-Heron wrote about how “whitey’s on the moon, I can’t pay no doctor bills…. Ten years from now I’ll be payin’ still.” Fucking Jeff Bezos and other billionaires have their own space programs! Not only have things not changed, but they’ve also gotten worse. Revolutionaries, such as McDaniels and Scott-Heron, saw it coming! Spiro knew how dangerous it was for people to have this knowledge, especially when it’s told in such a funky-ass way. Funny he had to resign because of tax evasion related to some kickbacks he was getting when he was Governor of Maryland and (as it turned out) the Vice President, but what does it matter. I guess McDaniel later lived an isolated life holed up in Kittery, Maine. For the tunes and the efforts, much appreciation.

“Jailhouse” by Sublime is the second. Not sure why but I’ve had this track in heavy rotation recently. It is just a fucking awesome song on a great album. Sublime recorded this album in Austin at Willie Nelson’s Pedernales Studio, and it was produced by Paul Leary of the Austin rock band the Butthole Surfers. While “What I Got” became a massive hit, the self-titled album is filled with ska-rock tracks that crush, one after the other. I guess Brad Nowell, the lead singer and guitarist, was on a pretty big heroin bender. This production is rumored to be a nonstop party (see the Interweb), and that’s saying something in the 1980s, as bands just fucking partied. Nowell was sent back to Los Angeles before the production was finished because he was so strung out and could barely function. “Jailhouse” is tucked in the middle of the album, as track 8.  Nowell is in such a groove with this tune. This song was originally written by The Wailers, but they didn’t do it this good for sure. Nowell sings about being a kid in 1983—I was a kind in 1983! “They were the best days of my life,” he muses, and he might be right. He continues “on my guitar, you had to be there.” I’m not sure that’s the case, because you can still feel the groove, it’s real. They used a ratchet as a part of the percussion! Sad to lose this guy, as he died of an overdose right before this album was released. 

A vignette: I wander down into a basement of a bookstore on south Broadway in Denver. There’s a makeshift stage and mic set up. I see the tattered spiral notebook and write my name at number 8. I see the professional comics in the back. They will be going up first, keeping their skills sharp as they have good shows the rest of the week. I sit by myself and run through my jokes. I’ve got a new chunk of material about a “Dog Whisperer.” I think I’ve got the punches and tags in the right places and I’m going to try it out in the middle of my 6-minute set. There’s about twelve comics strewn about the room. One of my friends walks in, I give him a point and a nod, and he sets up in the back. He’s wearing a mic and has a speaker on his belt. He probably just came from a street corner where he was telling jokes to whoever happened to be walking by.  He didn’t have a hat out for money or anything of the sort. For comics, our currency is the laugh.

After my first set, I drive down the street and pop into a Chick-fil-A for a lite dinner in between open mics. I grab a seat and go over my set.

What song is in my head?

“Ego Trippin” by De La Soul. I always loved this band. They were the first hip-hop band I really got into. I remember seeing the video for their track “Potholes in My Yard.” They had me, fucking Hip Hop already! They got a little press as I think they got sued by The Turtles for sampling one of their tracks on the album 3 Feet High and Rising. Not sure what happened to the lawsuit, but it didn’t really matter. De La Soul has regularly been on my playlist. I caught their show in the late 1990s at the Stark Club in Dallas. I have never been to a concert with that much energy. The whole crowd bumped and danced and rapped to every single song. “Ego Trippin” is on their album Buhloone Mindstate, which I believe is the last song on side one—I had the cassette. I played it so much that all the labeling wore off. As I review my set, eating a chicken sandwich, this song is rolling through my mind.

A vignette: I mosey into the front door of a comedy theater in lower downtown Denver. My buddy is walking up at the same time. “Great minds think alike,” I say. We sneak in, greet the host, and put our names on another list. This crowd is sparse. This mic has been going for about an hour and a half or so. The “crowd” of remaining comics is getting a bit dusty. The host lets me know that I am going up second to last. I review my set list again. I get introduced and take the mic. The laughs are meek, and my new “Dog Whispering” bit catches dead air. “What the fuck!” I think. I close okay, so I guess it is a success, even though it is not really what it feels like. I mosey back out, hanging the head a bit. 

What song is in my head?

“Rock Hard Times” by The Eels. Mark Everett put together a pretty great band, but for some reason they seem to fly under the radar. They have a lot of great songs, but no one seems to ever play them? “Rock Hard Times” is on the Shootenany! album, which hits home especially in today’s world. It aligns with the Zeitgeist, so to speak. I also really like the songs “Numbered Days” and “Saturday Morning.” I have a friend who lived in Sliver Lake in Los Angeles, where Everett lived. It was pretty cool to see him standing in line at the coffee shop back in the day.  I’m not sure anyone else knew who he was. Anyhow, Shootenany! is an awesome album and “Rock Hard Times” is a great song. The lyrics resonate with me: “Said I was doing things that never should be done, but I don’t care about their rules” and “hope you like the rotten stench of doom.” Great lines. Everett is a fantastic songwriter. I hope he keeps writing songs and gets a little more airplay because his catalog is pretty deep—the Eels have released fifteen albums since they started in 1996!

I could hit one more open mic, but I am kinda maxxed out. I decide to head home. I left my house at 4:30, and it is now 10:30. In six hours, I got 10 minutes of stage time. This is about as good as it gets, as the headliners say. Each time you perform, you shed a piece of armor. Eventually, you get down to the essence of your being where you’re able to be really authentic—then you connect with an audience in a special way. I think, “Well, maybe one day.”

What song is in my head as I head up I-25?

“Rainy Days and Mondays” by The Carpenters. This fucking song; it get’s the water works going every time. I almost can’t take it: Karen Carpenter’s voice is unbelievable. There’s really no comparison. Maybe Amy Winehouse, or Ella Fitzgerald, or Whitney Houston? Tough to say, but I think Karen Carpenter’s got them. Recently, some of Carpenter’s isolated vocal tracks from old studio sessions were released, and they are “off the rails.” What might she have done? Sad to know she’s remembered for dying of anorexia. I remember the amazing voice and change to a different track. She’s just too emotionally powerful, and I need a song that is not really motivating or a downer, just one to remind me, it’s just a “funny old world” (saying is attributed to the playwright David Mamet).

What song do I switch to?

“Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey” by Paul McCartney. Don’t forget about this song, it’s a legend. McCartney was involved in some pretty nasty legal battles in the United Kingdom as the Beatles were breaking up. He de-camped to New York with new wife Linda. He found a bunch of local session guys to put together the Ram album. While most the songs weren’t his best, you could still hear that he was a great songwriter. This track is buried on side two. It went to number one on the Billboard Top 100 charts in 1970. It’s so unique in its construction, using a rainstorm as a sound effect, and then you got the trumpet coming in at a point. It’s genius. As I drive out of town, maybe a bit frustrated and maybe a bit beaten down, I hear this song and remember, what does anything matter anyway? At the end of the day, as the song says,” we’re so sorry Uncle Albert, but we haven’t done a bloody thing all day.”

Schlong, Three Finger Spread, and Mike

By SoDak

In May 1992, several dozen friends crowded into the basement at the House of Edge to see Schlong play. It was their second time performing in Rapid City. We loved hanging out with Dave Mello (who previously played in Operation Ivy), Pat Mello, and Gavin MacArthur. They were as quirky and funny as their songs, which were filled with odd time signatures. As the local band Junk was wrapping up their set, an eviction notice was served, so the event turned into a final hoorah for shows in this basement. Schlong quickly set up, not sure if the concert would be shut down by the police. We had been listening to their new record Waxy Yellow Buildup (1992), memorizing the lyrics. As soon as the frantic, seemingly chaotic songs started, we locked arms around each other and danced around the room. When Schlong played “It Sucks to Be Fucked By Jesus,” it turned into a big sing along.

I got a letter from Jesus Christ.

It said get down on your knees and close your mind.

Don’t mind all the blood and pain.

It’s just part of the game.

I am a punk, a fucking punk, fuck you Jesus.

Joining the band, we erupted into a choir of sheep noises, just before the chorus.

Ba ba blaaaaaaaa.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

There were more animal noises. We continued to sing:

So I got down on my knees.

But little did he know I had my long fucking knife.

Stuck right into his dick, but he didn’t have one.

This was followed by yet more animal noises, including some oinks, before the rememberable chorus.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

Quickly, the lyrics set up a fight with Jesus. The room exploded as Schlong incorporated riffs from the Rocky fight song just before the ending. Smiles abounded as sweat was shared. 

Along with the Waxy Yellow Buildup record, there was a bonus seven inch, a split between Three Finger Spread and Nuisance. Both bands on this record were brilliant. Three Finger Spread was an acoustic side project of Schlong. In 1994, they released an additional split seven inch with the country punk band Elmer. Many of us were obsessed with these recordings, given the sarcasm, dark humor, and catchy songs. Three Finger Spread incorporated mandolin, banjo, violin, and guitar, with sing along choruses in high-pitched voices. “Phone Me, Bone Me” was about shoving a phone up the butt. During the song, they made funny noises, as they mimicked dialing a phone number. “Kitty Kat” was about a situation where the narrator was jealous that a loved one liked the cat more than him. He pondered if he run over the cat, would they still be together. “Gone, yes, she’s gone. There goes your pussy cat. Gone, yes, she’s gone. I saw its little head go splat.” The short song “Shit Shit” included the catchy lines, “fire here, fire there, burning all your pubic hair, burning everything in sight.” An additional gem was the song “Pisstoy” about the vampire Christ, which culminated in a sing along: 

Come to my church, come to my church.

Fuck you and your fucking church.

Come to my church, come to my church.

Fuck you and your fucking church.

Get down on your knees to pray.

Ain’t going pray in your fuckin’ church.

Get down on your hands to pray.

Ain’t going pray in your fuckin’ church.

We made cassette tapes of these songs to circulate. As we drove through the Black Hills, heading out to hike, we would sing along, imitating the twisted Three Finger Spread voices. It was quite joyous, uplifting our spirits. 

In June 1993, Three Finger Spread was added to a show at the VFW Hall. Accompanying them on this tour was Geoff Templeton, the bass player from Motherload. We were quite giddy, excited to see them play. While talking with the band, they encouraged my friend Mike to drive home to get his violin to join them on stage. They told Mike the key and showed him the chord progression, then set off into each song. On that day, we had a punk rock jubilee, clapping our hands, stomping our feet, and singing with the band. In addition to the aforementioned songs, they played “Pickin’ Up the Soap,” with the line “don’t bend over, I know you know better”; “Will You Go Out with My Mom,” with the lines “maybe I should buy some Preparation H, maybe I should buy some Advil, oh no, I better make myself a cup of coffee, maybe I should masturbate”; and two cover songs, including Slayer’s “Epidemic” and Journey’s “Just the Same.” From the soundboard, we recorded this performance, allowing us to circulate another tape of Three Finger Spread. 

For weeks, following this performance, we were elated, constantly talking about how much we loved Three Finger Spread. In late July, as evening was approaching, we headed into the Black Hills to watch the sunset from the top of a limestone outcrop off of D Road, hoping to see the Perseids meteor shower that night. We hiked up the hill, climbed the rocks, and spread blankets. From there, we could see the meadow to the north and the winding road through the Ponderosa Pines to the south. In the distance, a motorcycle was churning gravel through the curves. Above the whine of the engine, we heard someone singing. We recognized the voice; it was Mike. As he was riding his rusted Honda, he was singing the versus and choruses, first “Phone Me, Bone Me,” then “Pickin’ Up the Soap,” and finally “Pisstoy.” We stood up to watch him make his way to our location. Smiling, we joined him, yelling out, “Come to my church, come to my church. Fuck you and your fucking church.”

After Schlong’s fourth show in Rapid City, in April 1994, they obliged our request to also play a Three Finger Spread set. We provided them with acoustic instruments, gathered in a small side-room in JJ’s Rose Arcade, for a punk rock hootenanny, until the club closed. Thirty-one years later, I can still hear Mike’s gleeful voice in my ear and see his huge smile.

Conferring with the Moon

By SoDak

In the 1990s, I worked at a group home for youth who experienced sexual and physical abuse. The job was important, but it was heartbreaking and stressful. My shifts varied between eight to fourteen hours, always ending at 10 PM. At this time, I completed my notes regarding each child and an assessment of the day. The trauma that the kids had experienced filled my mind. I was exhausted by the time I got into my car to make the half-hour drive home. Down the winding road, I had to be alert, given the open grazing in this part of the Black Hills. I feared hitting a cow on the pitch-dark nights. William Ackerman was a constant companion, as I often listened to his record Conferring with the Moon (1986). His acoustic guitar playing captured my mind, calming me as I followed the notes and chords. The title track opened with his gentle playing, before Chuck Greenberg on the lyricon joined him. This wind synthesizer lifted the emotion, creating a feeling as if soaring through the trees. Michael Manring played the fretless bass, grounding the experience, with underlying notes. As the song progressed, a violin became intertwined in the journey. I would stare out the windshield, mind swirling with the song, as I searched for the moon. This instrumental guitar music carried me home. On many nights, Mike, Jerry, and Rich would swing by to pick me up around the time I arrived at my house. We would head back into the hills to hike, and, in the summer, we would plunge into Sheridan Lake under the night sky, washing away the fatigue and some of the sorrow. William Ackerman remains my favorite “new age” guitar players, always reminding me of the times shared with dear friends, following long days working. 

Playlist for an Esophageal Biopsy

By Jack Rafferty

I recently had my third endoscopy operation of the past year, since being diagnosed with a pesky chronic condition, Barrett’s Esophagus. The doctors need to go in there and make sure there aren’t any precancerous cells fucking about. Now, while I certainly wasn’t jamming to tunes while under the cloudy, euphoric influence of Propofol, I’ve since envisioned some tracks that I think fit the experience. 

Cattle Decapitation, “A Living, Breathing Piece of Defecating Meat.”

There’s something about the bodily horror of perceiving potentially significant health problems crawling around in your mortal shell that really brings songs like this to mind. The ugliness of the sound is cathartic when thinking about your insides betraying you. The lyrics, “When I try to speak through my spurthole, I simply choke on the mucus like aaaaghghghgaaah,” seem fitting when thinking about my esophagus full of scar tissue. I usually keep Cattle’s lyrical content at arm’s distance due to the misanthropy throughout a lot of it, but few bands capture the feeling of disgust with the world better. 

Slipknot, “(sic).”

While I haven’t listened to Slipknot much in recent years, there are few things that satiate rage for me like their first two albums. I was an angry kid, and grew up listening to them, so I think that has a lot to do with the staying power they have had in my life. They got me through a lot of dark shit, so I guess it is fitting that they would be here. There’s a lot of tracks that would work here, but “(sic)” has always been one of my favorites. 

Mischief Brew, “Coffee, God, and Cigarettes.”

To brighten things up a bit, Mischief Brew’s cheery and witty tune about the dour topic of addiction and the vices we sometimes swap to unhealthily cope with it by attempting to replace it through hypocrisy and denial and not heal from such struggles doesn’t exactly apply here. However, now that I can’t drink anymore (or have coffee or cigarettes), I guess I’m just left with living a healthy life against my will. It’s good for me in the long run, but that doesn’t mean I have to be graceful about it. Just because it’s good for me, doesn’t mean I have to like it!

The Pixies, “Where Is My Mind?”

I feel like this song is fitting in the context of being put under and coming out of it. The feeling of being lulled into a black void and brought crawling back from it, the disorientation, makes me think of this song. “With your feet on the air, your head on the ground” explains it pretty well. There is something eerily off putting about this song, where it has a slightly happy, slightly melancholy melody to it, with those ethereal backing vocals. I think about death often, almost obsessively, and certainly to a fault. I sometimes wonder if falling into death would be like the few seconds of euphoria you feel on Propofol before gliding off, only with the addition of a shitload of DMT being mainlined at the last moment. There’s plenty of songs that would fit a moment like that, but I feel like the guitar riff for this song, coupled with the haunting vocals of Kim Deal, would be appropriate in such a moment. 

Phalanx, “Sajo.”

Back to some pure rage. Phalanx knows exactly how to bludgeon the fuck out of your ears, short and sweet. Just like the next one. 

Knocked Loose, “Deadringer.”

My tombstone was made at birth

My coffin is on my back.

Not much to be said for the inclusion of this one. Just crushingly heavy. Makes you feel like a concrete wall is falling down on top of you, but in a way that makes you feel better. 

Blaze Foley, “Picture Cards Can’t Picture You.”

Along with the anger toward things we cannot control, there comes a sense of calm at times, and a level of acceptance, that allows us to focus on kinder thoughts amid terrible happenings. Throughout my grappling with troubled thoughts, I can always think of my partner, and know that no matter what the future holds, I’ve had the time that I’ve had with her, and nothing can take that away, which is a balm. It’s tough to pick a single song that Blaze wrote that encapsulates that feeling, let alone any song, but I think this one fits best. 

Peter Oren, “Anthropocene.”

How will we escape this lunacy?

How will we escape this hell?

How will we escape this hell they paved?

How will we escape this hell?

How will we escape this hell we made?

How will we escape this hell?

Considering certain extents of individual struggle within a much larger context of dread and suffering across the earth makes one consider deeply the frailty of all things, and cultivates the desire to want to make the most of what little time we have here to help others while working to dismantle the systems that destroy the lives of so many, that destroy the very conditions that make the planet livable in the first place. Peter Oren reflects this sentiment perfectly throughout his entire album Anthropocene, but particularly nails it on the title track. 

Pink Floyd, “Time.”

Speaking of life’s frailty, I feel like a good one to send us off is one of my favorite Pink Floyd songs (even though I do hate all the damn clocks at the beginning), which always makes me ponder how ephemeral our short time here is. However, this song over the years has transformed from making me feel gloomy to just making me feel humbled and present. Overall, this health thing is rough and something we all struggle with to varying degrees. It sucks to have to deal with, but it’s at least something I can live with, and isn’t utterly dire as it currently stands. I can be angry about it, but it is here to stay. I need to do what I can to make the best of it, continue putting my energy into whatever good work I can, and just be present in my humanity and the humanity of others as long as possible. 

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking

Racing around to come up behind you again

The sun is the same, in a relative way, but you’re older

Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Bill Chamberlain

By SoDak

Punk rock lifer Bill Chamberlain of The Pist, Brutally Familiar, Behind Enemy Lines, Mankind?, Caustic Christ, React, The Dissidents, and many other bands died on July 17, 2025. This past week, I have been spinning many of the records on which Bill played guitar. He wrote simple, straightforward, catchy riffs that set up the vocals. The couple times that I saw him play, with both The Pist and Brutally Familiar, he was very engaging and energetic. In 1993, he played guitar on seven-inch records by The Pist, Mankind?, and Brutally Familiar. Give these records a listen, enjoy the riffs, and sing along. My favorite of the three records is Brutally Familiar, especially the songs “T.V. Land” and “Cops Suck.”

The Pist, Destroy Society (1993). 

Mankind?, Won’t You Join the Army Now So You Fight…And You Can Die (1993).

Brutally Familiar, T.V. Land (1993). 

We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll: My First Time Hearing Black Sabbath

By SoDak

My neighbor Tim was five years older than me. He was wild, always in trouble with his parents, teachers, and the law. He had a paper route, affording him the ability to buy some records. The others he acquired through other means. He introduced me to AC/DC and Ted Nugent. The way Tim sang along to “Cat Scratch Fever,” “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang,” and “Big Balls” was very creepy and seemed dangerous. Nevertheless, I loved flipping through his records, as we listened to various gems. One day, in 1979, when I was seven, I saw We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll in his collection. Tim readily shared his records, so he told me to take it home to give it a listen. 

It was October, starting to cool off, in South Dakota. I was eager to spin the record on the cheap rummage sale stereo on top of the dresser. I set the needle on side A, curious when I heard the thunderstorm and bell. Then there was the guitar. What the fuck? I stopped the record, not sure how I was going to approach listening to this record and what to make of the few notes that I heard. I opened the windows to feel the cool breeze from outside. I repositioned the speakers, so they were facing each other. I turned off the lights, turned the volume up, restarted the record, and laid on the ground so my head was between the speakers. The world of music, as I knew it, changed. As I listened to “Black Sabbath,” I internalized what I was hearing, including the “figure in black which points at me.” It was chilling, but necessary to experience. I flipped the record over to be mesmerized by the antiwar song “War Pigs.” All these songs were heavy, with plenty of psychedelic and jazzy aspects thrown into the mix. I listened to sides A and B a couple more times, before moving onto sides C and D. I was struck by the variety of songs, from “Tomorrow’s Dream” to “Changes” to “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” to “Laguna Sunrise.” I lost my shit listening to “Children of the Grave”—the riff, the fucking drums, and vocals. It was perfection, as another antiwar, revolutionary song. My mother opened the door; I was crying due to being emotionally overwhelmed. She saw that I was joyful, so she quickly left the room. “N.I.B.” just made me want to hear everything again. I was headbanging before I ever heard of the term. It was natural.

The collection We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll was released in 1976. Most of the songs were from the first four records, with one track from Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and one from Sabotage. I reluctantly gave the record back to my neighbor Tim. As soon as I saved enough money, I bought Master of Reality, because of the song “Children of the Grave.” I fell in love with “After Forver,” “Into the Void,” and “Solitude.” I really appreciated the inclusion of the instrumental song “Orchid.” My Black Sabbath collection continued to grow—vinyl, cassettes, and CDs. Every time I saw a copy of We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll, I bought it, so I could give it a friend.

I saw Black Sabbath play three times. The first time, Sabbath opened with “War Pigs.” I instantly had goosebumps, welled up, and remembered the first time hearing Sabbath.   

Holy Fuckin’ Shit Local Teen Has Mind Blown

By Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B

In the days of before, that time in my life when I was sticking my toes in the waters of adulthood, when everything was a first, I heard Black Sabbath for the first time. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a friend’s El Camino in the middle of a pine forest, parked next to the creek where I spent a lot of time fishing and talking with my father as a lad. My friend and I were fairly new adherents to the thrash metal sound that had popped up a few years earlier. We were obsessed with Metallica, who had not yet turned to shit, Metal Church, Exciter, Anthrax, and Slayer. I lived in an area where access to heavy music was difficult. FM radio had only happened a few years before; cable television was not the norm, and, for kids like me, it wasn’t available since I lived outside of town in the mountains. The nearest record store was almost an hour away, which was an insurmountable distance due to not having a driver’s license and parents who didn’t understand my musical needs. It seems incredible that I had Exciter records a few years before I obtained my first Black Sabbath album. I assumed Sabbath had a dated sound that had nothing at all to do with the metal I was mail ordering through ads in magazines.

My friend, the El Camino commander, had a youngish father who was into Sabbath, so my friend decided to bring a cassette copy of Paranoid on one of our poorly planned camping trips. I may have been one or two beers into our music listening night when he put Paranoid into the cassette deck. In that moment, the walls I had constructed in my brain crumbled, and my musical journey took a giant leap forward. I couldn’t believe how fucking heavy it was, heavy and accessible. This was such a monumental moment for me that I can still remember almost everything that happened that night, and the excitement I felt when hearing “War Pigs” and “Fairies Wear Boots” for the first time, sometimes I still feel it.

I have a hard time naming favorite songs, albums, and bands, and, when I do, they never match reality. For example, I frequently name Iron Maiden as one of my top two favorite bands, but the reality is that I listen to The Fall, CAN, and New Model Army more than Maiden. Nostalgia is powerful, and for that reason Maiden will always be one of my favorites, but Black Sabbath will always be my favorite band, Paranoid my favorite record, and “Planet Caravan” and “War Pigs” in the upper echelon of my favorite songs.

As a side note, I am writing this after Ozzy’s death. Other than a handful of songs, I haven’t been a fan of Ozzy’s solo career. The duet he did with Lita Ford is among the worst songs of the 1980s. His concert series, Ozzfest, in my opinion, did a lot of damage to heavy music, by promoting shitty pseudo-metal bands. I have mixed feelings about Mr. Osbourne, but I cannot imagine “Planet Caravan” without his voice. For that, I will remember him fondly.

“What Is This That Stands Before Me?”

By Scott

It was the late 1990s. I was in 7th grade, spending a Saturday afternoon at a friend’s house, listening to—that’s right—Korn. I didn’t own a CD player, so my friend made me a tape. It was their self-titled, debut album. 

My dad picked me up, and I put on the Korn tape. We listened on the ride home. Neither one of us spoke. Then my dad said, “Have you ever heard Black Sabbath?” 

When we got home, he sat me down in the living room, dug around in a cabinet, and pulled out an LP. I watched as he walked over to the rarely used turntable. This felt significant: the last time he’d opened up the turntable was to play “Wipeout” when I’d started learning the drums. Now, he put on the Black Sabbath record, another self-titled, debut album, and handed me the sleeve. I stared into that scene for a while: the dark and dripping woods, the decaying building, the figure in black. 

Then, through his old stereo speakers: the scratch of the needle, rainfall, a church bell, thunder. A church bell? 

You know what it sounds like after that. Today, years later, I think of Louis Althusser’s remark about previously unknown continents of human thought: the Greeks discovering the continent of math; Galileo, of physics; Marx, of history; and possibly Freud, of the unconscious. Those first moments of music in the song “Black Sabbath” sure sound to me like the discovery of another new continent: the continent of heavy metal. 

I thought none of this at the time, of course. The song merely blew my fucking mind. 

“What is this?” My mom had been lurking around the house, listening. 

“Black Sabbath. Ozzy Osbourne’s band,” my dad said. She grimaced and walked away. I listened to the whole side, and then the other. Then another LP: Paranoid. That night, I taped them both, scurried off with my cassettes, and listened to virtually nothing else for six months.

I still have those tapes. They’ll go into my grave.

Almost thirty years have passed since that afternoon. The other day, I put on the live stream of Black Sabbath’s farewell concert from Birmingham. There were many bands performing that day who I’d first heard, and loved, after passing through the Sabbath gateway: denizens of the heavy metal continent. 

I have a three-year-old, and she watched some of the concert while it played throughout the day. I didn’t push it. But the next morning, I showed her the clips of Ozzy, taking the stage for his final show, and then the rest of Black Sabbath. She raised her little hand and formed the sign of the devil horns and said in her little voice, “We want Ozzy! We want Ozzy! We want Ozzy!” 

Yeah, she was coached. Fuck it. In this day and age, certain family values must be preserved.

Driving to Salt Lake City Soundtrack

By Jack Rafferty

Ever since we moved away, my partner and I have been traveling to Salt Lake City often to visit family and friends. It always takes a certain amount of strength on my end to brave the traffic of the city after getting so used to being in a rural area, but it is something I’m getting better with. We usually take turns on choosing music, but we mostly stuck to 1970s tunes this time around. 

Fleetwood Mac. 

I’ve been back on a Fleetwood kick lately. Fleetwood Mac has always been one of those groups where I have adored a handful of their songs, but then never gone much deeper into their discography beyond Rumours and their self-titled. I would like to give more of their music the time of day, but that will have to wait for another time. There is nothing like “Dreams” coming on at the right moment, with the right landscape passing you by.

Dire Straits. 

“Sultans of Swing” has always been a song that I enjoyed a lot. I hadn’t listened to much Dire Straits beyond that. So, it was nice to take the time during the drive to explore a couple of their albums. I listened to their self-titled and Communique. The melancholy, spacy sound of their bluesy rock was great to just lean back and drive to, without much thought other than the road. There were definitely tracks on both albums that didn’t grab me as much as I would have liked, but overall, I’m glad I gave them a listen, and am looking forward to listening to more of their work. 

Stealers Wheel, “Stuck in the Middle With You.”

I’ve been obsessed with this song ever since seeing Reservoir Dogs. I’m sure that is a common experience for folks around my age. This one is up there in terms of my favorite driving songs. I used to go off roading with friends up around Midway or out in the west desert, and this one was always so much fun to bounce down rocky roads at 2 AM. 

Jefferson Airplane.

There is a quote by Hunter S. Thompson, “on some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.” This always made me think specifically of the song “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane, which is fitting, as I know Thompson enjoyed this band. There are times when certain tracks from Surrealistic Pillow come on while driving, where I cannot help but press down harder on the gas, coasting toward some unknown abandon. 

The Velvet Underground.

I found out during the drive that my partner had never heard of The Velvet Underground, which astounded me, so we took some time and listened to some tracks from Loaded and their debut. I find it remarkable that I still have yet to listen to anything that sounds like Velvet Underground. I suppose it is a testament to their uncompromising avant garde sound and style, along with Lou’s poetic lyrics. 

Rory Gallagher.

I’ve admittedly listened to far too little of Rory Gallagher’s music, and I need to start changing that. We listened to a few of his songs on the way up to Salt Lake City, but it was during a point in the drive where the guitar passages just weren’t doing it for my partner, so we switched it up. I really loved listening to the song “I Fall Apart” while we did listen, though. I am looking forward to diving into his records with more of an attention span soon.  

Graveyard, Hisingen Blues (2011)

 

By Jack Rafferty

I do not like Greta Van Fleet. I must begin this review in this way because I need to make a distinguishing point. Greta approaches their throwback 1970s sound in a way that is cough heavily influenced by Led Zeppelin and Robert Plant’s vocals, to the point of being unforgivably derivative at times. Graveyard does the blissfully opposite. This album feels like a love letter to an era and collection of types of sound that revels in it, rather than cashes in on it. Perhaps I am being overly harsh to Greta in my admittedly flippant assessment of their approach, but I think it is appropriate in highlighting what Graveyard does so wonderfully right. It understands what to draw from, without simply becoming a chameleon, and by extension, a charlatan. 

With that out of the way, let us talk about how fucking fun Hisingen Blues is. Careening back and forth from blistering rock and roll jams to bluesy, moodier tracks that channel a bit of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Graveyard always feel completely at home in their sound, brimming with emotion and a love of what they are playing in every given moment. 

I think the most straightforward acclaim I can provide for this album is that I can’t count on my two hands for lack of fingers the amount of times I audibly exclaimed “fuck yes!” or got out of my chair to bob my head and sway my body in my own awkward fashion because the tunes just demanded it. This is the kind of music that makes you forget about the pile of thousands of types of bullshit worming around in your head for its whole runtime, and that’s reason enough to celebrate it. 

Another important note about what makes this album so great is the understanding they have as songwriters in the importance of pacing. Each track individually builds and crescendos or mellows at the most appropriate and satisfying moments, and the tracks in relation to one another also flow very well.

Listening to this album was my introduction to Graveyard, and so I am sure I am behind the curve when it comes to this group and the larger context/commentary surrounding them. That’s one of many wonderful things about music, however. I love the knowledge that, even if everyone stopped making music tomorrow, I’d still have these personally undiscovered treasure troves to seek out and bask in. Albums like Hisingen Blues remind me of that fact, and it slightly brightens my otherwise blackened disposition. 

Live Show Review: Sierra Ferrell

 

By Jack Rafferty

We finally got the chance to see Sierra Ferrell live with some friends of ours, and I’m so happy we did so, because it was even better than I thought it would be. The only issue we faced was in the venue. It was a Twilight Series concert in Salt Lake City, and, for some reason, the show was located in the middle of the street near Library Square, with barricades on each side of the road, which caused the many people in attendance to be crushed together in a very unpleasant way. To make matters worse, all the food trucks and beer lines ran parallel to the street, which caused the lines for each to intersect the crowd, and just made it generally a nightmare to navigate. This caused us to enjoy the openers (a local solo act who did a lot of Townes covers and Kaitlin Butts) far less than I think we would have otherwise. 

When it came time for Sierra to go on, we actually just left the main area that we paid for tickets to be in, and stood on the lawn next to the fence, which seems absurd, but it made the rest of the show so much better, and I’m relieved our friend had the idea to do so. Once Sierra and her band got on stage, all was well with the world. They started the set with one of my favorite songs from her new album, “I Could Drive You Crazy” and a good deal of the setlist consisted of a variety of songs that I love. I don’t think there was one that I wished had been performed but wasn’t. 

We were all captivated the entire time, with Sierra’s pristine voice soaring over our heads and the band playing immaculately. It all felt very rehearsed yet loose and easy. I honestly preferred these performances of the songs to their studio versions. The sun had also gone down behind the trees by this point, and there was a cool breeze blowing, which was a welcome reprieve from the summer heat we had been enduring among the crowd. 

They played their cover of John Anderson’s “Years” which had recently gained a lot of attention from another performance a couple of years ago. This cover really highlights Sierra’s range and her ability to belt out long, powerful notes. It was great to watch how much control she exerted over her voice, from the varied fluctuations in tone and volume as well. I really was not prepared for how impressed I would be watching her sing live. 

Post Malone joined her on stage for a couple songs as well, which drove the crowd wild. I’ve never been much of a fan of his music, but he seems to be a nice enough person from what I have heard. A lot of folks seem to run into him all over Salt Lake City. One of the songs he was present for was a duet with Sierra, and it actually sounded great. 

By the end, as darkness was finally settling into the valley, they closed out with an encore consisting of a more subdued version of “In Dreams,” a personal favorite of mine. Afterward, we walked a few miles in the cool night back to where our friends were staying, talking the whole way about how much we enjoyed the show. Despite the difficulties with the venue, this will be one to remember, for sure. 

For Ozzy

 

By Jack Rafferty

Music would not be what it is without Black Sabbath, without Ozzy Osbourne’s influence. The projects that Ozzy has been a part of and contributed to over the years have had a major impact from heavy metal to many of its sub-genres and beyond metal as well. It truly is hard to estimate the extent of influence Ozzy’s career has had. Pete Pardo from Sea of Tranquility put it well when he said that Ozzy’s music was “firmly entrenched in my DNA” in his tribute video. In many ways, Ozzy’s music is the foundation upon which much of my trajectory as a music fan is based. 

I’ll always think about the material conditions that Black Sabbath came from. The ruins of post-war Birmingham, where the children played in “the bomb site.” An industrial hellscape full of factories and slaughterhouses that claimed the lives and spirits of the working class. That is the atmosphere that Sabbath was built from. I remember the quote from the documentary The Nine Lives of Ozzy Osbourne where he said that the “first thing I did when I got some money was get drunk, buy some shoes and socks.” That was the reality they were facing in the midst of their beginning with the band, and I think it is important to recognize those roots. 

I very recently wrote a piece about my first time listening to Sabbath and what that entailed, so I won’t go too deep into that here, but I think it is worth noting for myself, in the context of a tribute to Ozzy, that my life would probably not be the same had I not listened to his music throughout the years. That seems a bit like hyperbole to write, but I know it is true, and I think Ozzy had a singular voice that none could mimic. Tony Iommi got it right when he said in reaction to Ozzy’s passing that, “There won’t ever be another like him.”

There’s something to be said of Ozzy’s range as well. To go from the dirge-like, doomier sound of early Sabbath, to those later Sabbath records and eventually the more high-octane, higher-register work with his solo albums (and the slower ballads on those albums as well), he was an excellent vocalist in his own way. I’ve had conversations on Ronnie James Dio versus Ozzy with some folks throughout the years (which I think is a dumb dichotomy to argue, to begin with), where the staunchly Dio-sided folks always branded Ozzy as “one-note,” which I didn’t think was fair or accurate at all. 

Much like the point I made in my piece about Shane MacGowan after he passed away, I think increasingly unrealistic and dangerous expectations were made of Ozzy throughout his life that were sensational in nature and are a product of a sick celebrity culture (particularly after the bat incident). Much of the exaggerated press around Ozzy at that time (some of which the Osbournes capitalized on, no doubt) was the result of his struggles with addiction and unpredictable mental state. It was not something that should have been made into a topic of romanticization regarding his persona (this obviously could be an opinion being made in hindsight, but I think it’s a nauseatingly common occurrence for fans and the media to obsess over and glorify these struggles). Another parallel with Shane is how this behavior comes to be expected, and how it is perceived as charmingly buffoonish, something to make a joke out of (a lot of his behavior on the television show reinforced this). 

I even remember when I was kid in school, and I was pretty freshly listening to Sabbath, I’d talk to other kids who I knew were into that kind of music at the time, and they would either know Ozzy because he was called The Prince of Darkness or because he bit the head off a bat. This always annoyed the fuck out of me, since I wanted to talk about his music. I’ve always had a problem with the whole persona behind rock and roll and whatnot, and it’s no different with Ozzy’s situation. It’s not to excuse much of the behavior he exhibited while he was fucked up, either. He was a bad drunk most of his life and at times a monstrous person who negatively influenced a lot of people around him. It’s unfortunately an integral part of his life story and needed to be discussed. 

However, I am glad that Ozzy was able to do his final show just a couple weeks ago. To know he was able to go out on his terms from a certain point of view, knowing that his health was in bad shape, is gratifying to a degree. 

Writing a tribute for Ozzy is a bit complicated because I think I have a complicated view of him as a person. However, it is undeniable how much his music means to me. That is just a complex fact of life that I deal with regarding many artists. All I know is that I will be listening to a lot of Sabbath and Ozzy’s solo shit for the next couple weeks. Particularly “Changes,” “Mama I’m Comin Home,” and a few other of the more melancholy tracks, and remembering him in my own way, in the way his music has played such a significant role in my life. 

I feel like this quote from Ozzy caps this off pretty well: “You know the time when I will retire? When I can hear them nail a lid to my box. And then I’ll do a fuckin encore.” 

First Time Listening to Black Sabbath

By Jack Rafferty

Since Sabbath just had their final show, it has caused me to reflect on when I was first introduced to them when I was young, and the impact it had on me. I remember being at my dad’s duplex, I can’t recall what I was doing at the time, but I was pretty young. It was a summer evening, and my dad was grilling some ribs while some robins eased their worries in the birdbath near the ash trees. My dad usually had his CDs playing in the background while he got drunk slowly on cheap beer and grilled into twilight. We would also listen to the radio at times, and it was usually some classic or hard rock station. 

I don’t remember the songs playing before it, but at some point, “Iron Man” played. I have no idea what I was doing prior to hearing it, but I stopped whatever it was, as I was completely entranced by that song. That initial foreboding, steady drum, leading into that first deeply bent note, sent chills all over my body. I ran around the house for a week after hearing those leading notes that Tony Iommi bends so low, trying to mimic that sound with my voice. I was obsessed with it and had never heard anything like it. To this day, I haven’t heard much that has had such a power over me like those first few notes. 

I went out a few days later to find a Black Sabbath CD. I had asked my dad who played that song, and he had told me, but he didn’t know which CD it was on, so I didn’t know which one to look for. I ended up combing through the CDs at the store, and getting the one that had the most frightening cover art, since it made sense to me that such a terrifying song would be on that record. It ended up being their debut. It wasn’t until much later that I was able to locate and listen to Paranoid.

When I got home, I hurried up the off-yellow carpet on the stairs to my room and closed the door. This was already becoming a routine in my life. Finding new music, hurrying to my room full of anticipation, and closing my door for privacy to listen without any distractions, like a sacred ritual. If I thought “Iron Man” was scary, I was not prepared for what the self-titled first track would make me feel. The ominous sound of rain, and a distant bell as though it were ringing over a sad cemetery. The deep rumbling thunder, and then those first immense, sinister notes. It felt like I was listening to something that I shouldn’t have been. As if this were something occult or evil and that I was going to awaken some ancient, malevolent creature if I kept going, but I was too immersed to stop. When the song gets to that first shriek of “oh noooo” from Ozzy Osbourne, I almost had to hide under my pillow. I couldn’t believe that there was music out there that was even more frightening yet exhilarating than AC/DC, which I had only recently discovered.

Over the years since those days, I’ve continually returned to Sabbath’s many records, with differing opinions and perspectives as I have grown older. They have since become and remained one of my favorite bands, and they expanded my perception of music. Sabbath shaped my musical taste in many ways, and they will always hold an immensely important place in my heart, as I know they do for so many others. I’m glad they were able to do a sendoff on their own terms. It is incredible to think back on all that they have influenced, and while I’m sad that I never did get to see them perform live, I’m very grateful to have their music in my life. 

Mt. Crosier Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

This year being more than half over, I decided it was time to climb a mountain. What did I listen to?

I drove up Highway 34 and made a right at the split (Larimer County Rd. #43) to head to Glen Haven, Colorado. It was a misty, cool morning; the air was heavy from a rain the night before. It was an absolutely stunning drive up the Big Thompson Canyon. Sometimes you can see a bighorn sheep herd on the side of the cliffs, but not on this day. Being the middle of summer, they were probably up in higher elevations, where it was cooler. They are amazing to see; it seems that they carry an energy about them.  

What was on the radio?

By happenstance, I was only able to get a few stations driving up the canyon.

#1, 88.9 KRFC. 

Fort Collins community/public radio station is pretty solid, but it can be a tad hit or miss depending on the DJ. Fridays, they typically have a good DJ lineup with Ted and “My Bird” from 5-7 PM and “The Apocalypse Radio Show” with Colonel Kurtz from 7-9 PM. These are pretty solid shows with great selections (i.e., “San Andres” by Portastatic and “Listen” by Tears for Fears). Sometimes these guys get a bit obsessed with the obscure tracks and the deep cuts, but hey if things get too weird that’s the beauty of the radio; you can always change the station. 

“Highway Patrol” by Johnny Cash. What a great deep cut this was! I wasn’t familiar with this track but what a cool song (written by Bruce Springsteen). Cash has a great voice, and it was really at home with this song. It tells a story, which seems like a bit of a dying art. Anyhow, I really like the way Cash does it; it feels authentic and what a great message. This version of the song kind of reminds me of the great Harry Chapin in the 1960s and 70s. (Check out the album Short Stories and most importantly the track “Mr. Tanner.”)

#2, 107.9 KBPI.

KBPI is billed as Denver’s hard rock station. It has been a mainstay for 40 or 50 years (used to be 105.9 back in the day). I guess this is a pretty cool station as far as hard rock goes. I would probably like to hear more Slayer and Metallica than Ozzy Osborne and The Offspring, but is there any station with a Slayer record on the ready?

“Photograph” by Def Leppard. This is a very popular song in Colorado, where people continue to love Def Leppard as much as they did in the early days of MTV. The song had a great video, and the band had a cool look. I think this is a sweet track. I could relate—a photograph of a beautiful baby was invaluable back in the day. The song was about a photograph of some girl from a magazine of sorts, and the photo wasn’t cutting it for this guy—creepy, but a fun jam, nonetheless. Pretty good band, I guess. A year after Pyromania was released, the drummer Rick Allen lost an arm in a car accident. 

#3, 102.5 KTRR.

Northern Colorado’s classic rock retro station. This is a station I find myself on quite frequently. It’s an easy listen and always plays familiar songs, helpful for keeping a mellow mind while driving around. This station is dialed in for me every Sunday, as they play a classic episode of Casey Kasem’s “American Top 40.” It is fantastic with long-distance dedications and chart tracking of these old songs. It’s a nice stroll down memory lane as far as I am concerned.

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s” by Deep Blue Something. I know these guys. The songwriter played in a band, Little Black Dress, with a friend of mine. The lead guitar was a restaurant manager my wife worked for when we first got together! Deep Blue Something formed in Denton, Texas, just outside of Dallas. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” was their only hit, but what a hit it was. It has the melodramatic feel that fits just perfectly on a retro playlist rotation. I’m not sure I really like this song, and I know the guys in the band were definitely sick of it. I did some digging and learned that the Houston Press named “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” the second worst song to come out of Texas after Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby.” But what does that matter when these songs still get quite a bit of airplay?

Finally, I arrived at the trailhead to begin my mission of climbing a mountain. I worried whether I had enough water. The weather in the mountains can be volatile and unpredictable. Being unprepared can be a problem. The trek up Mt. Crosier is about three and a half miles. It sounded manageable on paper, but let’s not forget it’s all uphill with some pretty intense elevation gain.  It was really stunning and peaceful, great views of snow still perched on mountains in the distance. Wildflowers were strewn about filled with the buzzing of insects. I wished I could identify some of them, but I’m only able to recognize “Bell’s Twinpod”—a small, clumping yellow flower only found in Boulder and Larimer counties in Colorado. Of course, I just read about this, so it was interesting to find it in the wild. I was moving at a pretty good pace and wasn’t really seeing any animals except for some random birds. The sounds in this area provided for some unique listening, as it resonated as I moved along, huffing and puffing a bit.  

What song is in my head?

“Time Out of Mind” by Steely Dan. Full disclosure, I am a pretty massive Steely Dan fan. I have followed two Steely Dan cover bands around. When I lived in Denver, there was Kid Charlemange, and, in Dallas, there was a band called Naked Lunch. Anyhow, this was the perfect track to be running through my head as I walked up this mountain. Yes, this was a moment when time doesn’t seem to exist. It was just me in the world, putting one foot in front of the other trying to get to the summit—time out of mind. The making of this song had quite the crew in the studio: Mark Knopfler on guitar, the Jazz fusion virtuoso’s “the Brecker Brothers” on the horns, and Michael McDonald with Valerie Simpson (of Ashford & Simpson fame) on backup vocals. It’s commonly thought this song is about heroin, as Walter Becker had a pretty good habit back in the day. I like to think that the song is reaching a place in your mind where you can just be, not thinking about anything but just being present.

Upon reaching the summit, I felt my heart pounding, thinking I should probably relax as this was not a good place to have a heart attack. Calming, I took it all in. A cleansing came over me, as I chewed on this incredible view. Climbing a mountain helps make sense of life and the world, because from this perspective, things feel pretty incredible. 

I headed down and wondered about the lack of animals. Except for some birds and the occasional chipmunk, this ecosystem seemed a bit lacking. Where were the deer, the elk, and the midline consumers? I felt a bit concerned this ecosystem was a bit out of balance; it was especially apparent in the density of the forest, with pine trees right next to each other and deadfall everywhere. Perhaps, the animals knew something we should know. If there was a fire, this forest would be an inferno. The animals probably figured out they should be in a safer area.

As I approached the trailhead, getting close to where I started. I felt a sense of relief and accomplishment. All a sudden I was startled, there was a fox staring right at me! I didn’t see him (assuming) at all, probably just the way he planned it. He didn’t seem scared at all. I thought we might be having a bit of a conversation.

Fox: Nice job on the hike, looks like your life is rolling along alright.

Me: Thanks

Fox: I followed you the whole way and if you died up there, I would have eaten you.

Me: Maybe next time.

What did I play as I drove down the canyon?

“All Day Music” by War. People might ask, “What’s so great about War?” The Latino community would point to songs such as “Low Rider” and to some extent the “Cisco Kid,” as a couple of cultural defining tracks. I would say the best thing about War was Lee Oskar. This guy emigrated from Europe with nothing but a harmonica in his pocket. Adding harmonica to their R&B sound was unprecedented. And it was not just any harmonica, as Lee Oskar was arguably the best harmonica player there ever was. (Check out the songs “The World Is a Ghetto” and “City, Country, City.”) He later took a break from playing and formed a harmonica manufacturing company, which produced some of the finest harmonicas (Oskar’s) ever made. Oskar’s harmonica added a fantastic element to the sound and the music of War. They also had the great vocalist Eric Burdon, formerly of The Animals. Together, they had some awesome songs.

What I should have played as I drove down the canyon?

“Spill the Wine” by War with Eric Burdon.

Burn the Flag with Phantasmorgasm and Propagandhi

By SoDak

The class war of the rich against working people continues to intensify, as millions are going to be thrown off their health care. Fascist fucks in Congress chant “U.S.A” following the passage of the heinous bill. The U.S. Air Force in Utah conducts flyovers to remind us that burning jet fuel is patriotic. Fuckhead Trump surrounds himself with flags, as he signs the bill, thinking he controls everyone and everything.

Phantasmorgasm, a punk rock band with some funk, starts their song “Burn the Flag,” with the line, “Oh can you see,” before asking:

Do you see the homeless people die?

Do you hear the hungry child’s cries?

Do you think of anyone, but yourself?

With simple lines, they illuminate stark inequalities and shame in a nation where a small percentage of the population controls vast amounts of wealth. With the line, “the flag is a symbol with no meaning,” they counter those in power who shroud themselves in the flag, using it to justify their actions to plunder the public. With weariness, leading to the end of the song, they sing:

I’m so sick of seeing pain, 

everywhere I go,

the people without homes….

I’ll burn the flag,

I’ll burn your flag.

This sounds like a great idea on this day of continued shame. This evening, I am going to burn seven U.S. flags in a metal bowl, envisioning an empire on the brink of implosion. While the red, white, and blue turns into smoke, I will play Propagandhi’s “Stick the Fucking Flag Up Your Goddamn Ass, You Sonofabitch.” My wife and I will be smiling as we sing along:

My father told me, “Son it’s futile to resist. You can topple the ideology but not the armies they enlist.” I questioned the intentions of the boy scouts chanting “WAR!” “Well, that’s the sound of freedom, son,” he said (free to say no more). But wait a minute “dad,” did you actually say freedom? Well, if you’re dumb enough to vote, you’re fucking dumb enough to believe them. Because if this country is so goddamned free, then I can burn your fucking flag wherever I damn well please. I carried their anthem convinced it was mine. Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line. But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck they had done to me. Made accomplice to all that I promised I would never be. You carry their anthem, convinced that it’s yours. Invitation to honour. Invitation to war. Bette Midler now assumes sainthood. Romanticize murder for morale. Tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree my friend and “Gee, Wally. That’s swell!” Fuck the troops.

Jimmy Swaggart (1935-2025) and the Sons of Ishmael

By SoDak

Polish tinsel Christian values with lots of hate and Jimmy semen. The finger that points is up your dress.

—Sons of Ishmael

The televangelist Jimmy Swaggart is finally dead at the age of 90, no longer able to spread his rotten seed. In the late 1970s and through most of the 80s, he smiled on the TV, sang gospel songs, praised God, taught hate, and swindled followers of money to build an empire through his ministries, broadcast network, and his bible college. He financially supported the South African-backed Mozambican National Resistance, an anti-communist militia group that committed crimes against humanity. In 1988, he pleaded for forgiveness in his “I Have Sinned” speech, when the first of his prostitution scandals was exposed. Once defrocked, he was undeterred and became a non-denominational minister, continuing his bigotry.

In 1989, Sons of Ishmael, a Canadian punk rock band, released the seven-inch Sing Generic Crap. Today, to mark the occasion of Jimmy’s demise, I am listening to their short song, “Jimmy Swaggart Stuck His Pee-Pee in My Poo-Poo.” The deeply scathing cynicism for the hypocrisy of televangelists erupts with:

It seemed like much more than a dream

When Jimmy Swaggart came to me

He said, “Send your kids to my school

Where they’ll learn to be just like me

I put my penis into whores

To cleanse them of their awful sins

I intimate children and old people

Extracting protection money to ward off Satan.

With a few lines they capture Jimmy:

Show me your sins and I’ll show you mine

Take me to a hotel room and I’ll tear off my garter belt;

Wholesome Christian blood rush to my penis

Little girls with blue lipstick are yeast to my penis.

It is no surprise that Jimmy loved Shitbag Trump. I hope Jimmy’s family plays this Sons of Ishmael song (3:22 in the video below) at his funeral.

Austin Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

 

I recently headed down to Austin to see one of my oldest friends.

Going from Dallas to Austin used to be a somewhat lazy drive, just moseying down the road and watching the Texas countryside. Now, you drive Mad Max style on the roadway through one massive city. While the names along the way change (Waco, Temple, West, Georgetown), it doesn’t matter; it all looks the same. It is just one enormous gas station, strip mall, fast food restaurant, or whatever suburban wasteland type establishment after another. It goes on and on and on. It’s kinda too bad and sad, but when the billboards say “Heartbeat in 18 days…choose adoption” those folks are going to have to live somewhere. It would be nice to see an actual Texas Longhorn somewhere along this journey, which now takes about four hours due to the seemingly endless stream of trucks, construction, and traffic.

What did I listen to? 

Happiness Heartaches by Brian Auger’s Oblivion Express. I was not familiar with this album, but it sure was a pleasant surprise, especially the title track and “Spice Island.” Jazz fusion is one of those genres that is uniquely “love/hate.” If you get it and it’s well done, it is special. On the other side, I’d say, many people just think it’s too far out there to really be enjoyed. This musical genre came out of the late 1960s, mixing rock, funk, blues with jazz improvision. It was more accessible free jazz. Many bands rotated the players, creating unique combinations of musicians, which led to some great groups and iterations. The band Weather Report, for example, was filled with awesome musicians (i.e., Wayne Shorter and Jaco Pastorius), and they put out some excellent music. Their song “Birdland” is one of the most played jazz songs ever. I get it, I’m definitely in the minority, but listening to some jazz fusion was perfect as I coasted through this endless exurb that was once the Texas countryside.  

As I encountered a traffic jam of epic proportions in Austin, I switched it up to listen to Here and Now on NPR. The hosts were talking about a genre of music called Lo Fi Hip Hop, which is very popular with the youth of today. As the story detailed (https://www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2025/06/05/lofi-girl-youtube-channel), there’s a Youtube channel that plays these mixes, and it helps students and people who have trouble focusing to focus. There is some science behind it. A researcher who had studied this phenomenon had a very interesting insight: music is scientifically proven to act like a metronome to the electric charges that shoot throughout our brains. Music can literally influence and pace our thinking. This was fascinating to think about as I pulled into one of the great music cities in the world. 

I arrived at my friend’s house around 3 PM. We started things off with a shot of Tequila; it seemed prudent. Next, we headed out to take a dip at the Deep Eddy Pool. It was already hot in Austin and Deep Eddy Pool was right on time. As far as pools go, this one is topflight.  According to the interwebs, this pool is the oldest public pool in Texas and holds 600,000 gallons of water.  It’s fed by natural springs and maintains a constant temperature around 68 degrees. It was perfect for a hot Texas day—not too crowded and the giant Cottonwood trees provided just enough shade.  

What did my buddy want to listen to?

Something by Bach or Vivaldi. He’s turned into a classical music fan. I’ve got to admit, it sure is a refreshing sound. I wish I knew more about classical music and should probably just listen to it more often, as I think my brain synapses would appreciate it.

What did I want to listen to?

“Hot Fun in the Summertime” by Sly and the Family Stone. This is a great song for just chilling in the summer, hanging with an old friend, and swimming in a cool pool, deep in the heart of the Texas. (RIP Sly.)

As we drove back to his house in South Austin, we turned on some local classic rock station.

What were they playing?

 “Renegade” by Styx. This is an excellent song off the Pieces of Eight album. The cover had the ladies posing with the statues of the Moa on Easter Island as earrings. I really like Styx. The Grand Illusion broke them with the hits “Come Sail Away” and “Fooling Yourself.” They shortly followed up this record with the epic Paradise Theater, an incredible album that featured “The Best of Times” and my favorite Styx song “Too Much Time on My Hands.” It was nice to hear some Styx—great band with a pretty solid catalog. Later, with their song “Mr. Roboto,” the wheels may have fallen off the Styx train a bit. It’s just a nutty song, but maybe the message is a little more poignant in today’s AI/Internet world.   

We then headed to The Yard, down in the St. Elmo District, to grab dinner and catch some music. The St. Elmo District is now an established nightlife dining area right by Ben White Ave. and South Congress. It consists of old warehouses that have been turned into breweries, bars, and pickelball courts, with plenty of food trucks strewn about. We entered the St. Elmo Brewery, and the band was in-between sets. We got some beers and food while reminiscing. The band started up and played some bluegrass—for some reason this is the music genre “du jour” in Austin these days. The band was topflight, loaded up with a fiddle player, banjo, and mandolin. They crushed.  I heard some of the members toured with Dolly Parton’s band; they sure had the skills.

What did they play?

“I’ll Fly Away” by Albert Brumley Sr. This is a country standard and has been covered, redone, and whatnot by many country artists. This bluegrass band had a great rendition.  

“(Hey Baby) Que Paso” by the Texas Tornados. Here’s a fun jam, and these bluegrass guys tricked it up nicely.

Back at my buddy’s house, we indulged in a nightcap. He had some interesting insights, maybe something I’ve always known but needed to be reminded of. He said he had been listening more to the universe and it had been talking to him. This is sure important to remember. I think the universe told me to head down to Austin, it was time. I’m glad I listened. Austin is a wonderful town, at least to visit anyway. As I left the next morning, I saw a bluebird perched in a giant Yucca tree. 

What was song was in my head as left the next morning?

“Solving Problems” by Brent Cobb.

Colin Jerwood (1962-2025), Singer of Conflict

 

By SoDak

On June 3, 2025, I was listening to Conflict’s new record, This Much Remains, enjoying the back-and-forth vocals between Colin Jerwood and Fiona Jayne Friel. While Conflict was not the most innovative band, they helped set a standard, as far as anarcho-punk music. They consistently delivered fast-paced, fierce hardcore, loaded with driving, distorted guitars, and pounding drums. Colin’s vocals, sometimes shouted, mixed fast talking and singing, with a melodic touch. They were loaded with emotion, including anger, love, and sarcasm. They demanded attention. After listening to This Much Remains, while reading the lyrics, I started the record over. As the title track was playing, I read that Colin had died the previous day at the age of sixty-three. 

I immediately recalled the first time that I heard Conflict in the mid-1980s, when I bought both It’s Time to See Who’s Who (1983) and Increase the Pressure (1985). As I played “No Island of Dreams,” I felt like I was thrown into a crowded mosh pit, packed shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other punks, moving to the cadence of Colin’s vocals. It was a release of energy—a type of musical ecstasy. The flood of songs about struggles for justice, animal rights, anarchism, and anti-fascism were intoxicating. I got chills listening to “From Protest to Resistance,” as the distorted guitar starts the song, followed by the slow chord progression and the building drums, leading to relentless drive, when Colin yells, “No, no/There’s no fucking way/That anything’s going to change/It depends on you and you now/We can protest ‘til death, they won’t listen/Don’t sit back and think it will happen/They won’t give up what they have robbed/Stand up and resist.” Passionate and desperate, certainly. Importantly, there was also the realization that active resistance is necessary. This aspect should be plainly obvious, given the fascist fucks today trying to impose their will. The song ends, “If we’re to stand the slightest chance we must unite and fight/We must never give up/Make sure our message ain’t forgotten/‘Cause if they won’t fucking stop/Then we’re gonna fucking stop them.”

Love of Conflict also serves as a beautiful bond with my friends Wayne and Craig, as we spent many hours listening to their records. Two of my favorite Conflict records are The Final Conflict (1988), on which Steve Ignorant from Crass is a co-vocalist, and Against All Odds (1989). Today, I am going to listen to the former, as I am eager to hear “I Heard a Rumor” and “The Cord Is Cut.”

Ski Day Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

I take the day off to enjoy spring skiing at the Loveland Ski Area.

What do I listen to?

Hopping on the I-25, I tune into 93.5 Pirate Radio in Fort Collins. It is a classic “Boomer” station playing oldies, 1940s through the 1980s, as well as jazz, doo wop, and big band. I like how this station is super mellow and chill. It has an attitude of “hey, here’s a song to make you smile.” The concept of Pirate Radio was the idea that radio stations could operate outside of government boundaries and be free to play what they want, without government oversight. The same was true of “Border Blasters” in the United States (also see Mexico radio station XERF); these stations would broadcast at 250,000 watts bypassing the FCC regulations of 50,000 watts at the time. These stations supposedly led the way of exploring underground sounds—not sure it was a bit before my time. I do remember the famous DJ Wolfman Jack, who had a great look and a great story. Anyhow, 93.5 Pirate Radio Fort Collins plays songs you “want to hear but never hear.” I guess Pirate Radio has come full circle.  

They play “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo” by Lobo. I don’t know much about Lobo, but he probably had a strong presence on the Adult Contemporary charts back in the day. Pretty cool song and message. It has a vibe of easy days—just rolling around the country. “How I love being a free man.” I get that. 

Driving down the road, I tune into 97.3 KBCO, the seminal Boulder station, billed as world class rock. Overall, this is a pretty pitiful station, as the playlists always seem contrived and pompous. I’m not sure that I ever needed to hear Sugar Ray or Evanescence. But seeing how, ironically, 93.5 Pirate Radio is no longer accessible, I tune in for a few songs.

They play: “Where the Streets Have No Name” by U2. This is the opening track off the seminal Joshua Tree album, produced by Brian Eno. This is a pretty good album, but “Where the Streets Have No Name” is not really a great song. Nonetheless, this record was the album of the year in 1987. U2 was pretty big with my generation (Gen X), but I always thought they were a bit overrated. They are the perfect band for KBCO. The early albums were cool, especially Boy and October, but it just felt like they got pretty cheesy as they became more mainstream. Maybe they get a lot more credibility in Colorado because they recorded their live album Under a Blood Red Sky at Red Rocks—I don’t know. I do really appreciate the Joshua Tree title. I agree with U2, Joshua trees are magical. Just go to Joshua Tree National Park; you’ll feel it. Not sure what they think about the song “With or Without You” however.  

I finally make it to Loveland Ski Area after a two-hour drive. Skiing these days is expensive; an all-day lift ticket here is $120! Sadly, skiing has become a sport for the well-to-do. This is unfortunate because skiing is a pretty amazing experience.   

Taking a lift to one of the warming huts to stash my lunch, I happen to overhear a couple of the staff setting up the concession bar.

They are listening to “Friday I’m in Love” by the Cure. I’m a pretty big Cure fan, even though I was a “little late to the party.” I got pretty deep into the catalog and was a huge fan of their albums The Top and The Head on the Door. They first arrived on my radar with their hit “Killing an Arab.” This was pretty poignant because I was also reading The Stranger by Albert Camus around the same time. It was a real sweet connection—a great book with a great song to match!  

The staff only play about a minute of “Friday I’m in Love,” which I understand. It’s not a great song, sappy and melodramatic. It is not a top one in the Cure Catalog for me or one to hear while setting up the short order grill for the day. 

What do they quickly skip to? “Let’s Dance” by David Bowie. This was my entry track to David Bowie. I think I saw the video first, as it sometimes happened in the 1980s. Cool video, cool song, and what a cool guy. I think this album/song was a bit of a comeback album for Bowie as he was in a bit of a commercial lull at time. This track introduced me to the Bowie world. I’m a pretty big fan, especially of the Station to Station album, which is stacked with one great song after another. 

A vignette: I ski down the Premier Bowl, a double black that drops down from the #9 lift at 12,700 feet above sea level. I quickly realize I need to watch myself, because my skills feel wonky, and a wipeout seems imminent. I go slow and make big giant slalom turns. I feel the edge of my ski get caught, and I go down in a massive crash, smack my helmet and loss a ski.  As I lay there in a huge pile of snow, I laugh at myself. What an idiot, “You are not an expert skier anymore!” I struggle to get up and get myself together. I get my ski on and head down slowly and deliberately. I move on to an easier part of the mountain. 

I ski down a run, a green (easiest) run, called “Forrest Meadow.” It is nice and easy. I get into the moment and just focus on the beauty of being on this mountain and making some solid turns.  

What song is in my head? “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” by the Allman Brothers. I’m a big fan of the Allman brothers. I once saw them at Red Rocks. I was shrooming my ass off. Right when they came out, a full moon rose above the stage. It was incredible. This track is pretty sweet, a southern rock instrumental jam. You can hear some jazz influence in the writing, that classic AABA form. I love the Dickey Betts and Duane Allman guitar interplay, and Gregg Allman throws down some pretty good organ as well. I discovered this song was tribute of sorts to this girl Dickey Betts was having an affair with at the time, Carmela Scaggs wife of Boz Scaggs.  You don’t hear rock instrumentals very much, and this song did it right.

What song should have been in my head? “Lowdown” by Boz Scaggs.

A vignette, part 2: I’m on my skis looking around. It reminds me of being in the ocean. Some of this water on this mountain might make it to the ocean. To ski down on a huge frozen body of water on 12,000-foot mountain is an absolutely surreal scene if you think about it.

    Laguna Beach by Scott Henderson

I wrap up my day and hear some faint music, as I pop out of my skis at the base near the lift named “Chets Dream.” I wander up the stairs and stumble into a performance by three white guys playing in a reggae band! Wow, that’s pretty sweet. They didn’t sound great—the same beat and guitar part seemed to resurface in every song. It didn’t sound like they did much of a sound check either. I haven’t seen much live music recently, but it is always noticeable if the sound is off. I looked them up later and learned they are band out of Denver called Kedron Asphalt Palace (https://kedronasphaltpalace.com/). I’m not sure if I’ve ever been to a reggae show, but these guys weren’t really selling it. I’m not sure white dudes should be really playing reggae.

As I walk back to my car, doing the heel to toe walk you do in ski boots, I faintly heard them playing “Straight to Hell” by the Clash. I guess I take back what I just said about Kendron Asphalt Palace, well some of it, anyway.

What is my theme song for the way home? “Watching the Wheels” by John Lennon.